A/N: Well I'm actually getting to post this a bit faster than expected. Lots of people seem to be looking at it, but not many reviewing, which leaves me wondering if you're all just too kind to tell me how rubbish it is...
Geographical Note: Apologies if I've got the geography all wrong - imagine how confused I was to discover Kansas City was in Missouri - although some of it's in Kansas. I mean what's all that about?
Disclaimer: So I still don't own Supernatural and I definitely don't own Kansas. Although if I did, I'd see what the hell they put in the water there... I mean the Winchesters and Clark Kent / Lex Luthor (Smallville Brand of course)? You're not telling me that's just Kryptonite... Demonic Kryptonite maybe. Ah I think I've solved it... The Demon is actually General Zod and this is his attempt to take over the world using very pretty actors... OK I'm rambing now... Here's Chapter Two.
Chapter Two
Dean hadn't realised how close they'd been to Kansas these last few months.
So it came as something of a shock when the drive from Gladstone, Missouri to Manhattan, Kansas only took three hours, including a couple of rest stops when Uncle Ian insisted on buying them ice cream.
Geography always had been more Sammy's thing.
He wondered briefly whether Dad had deliberately not told them how perilously close Gladstone actually was to Lawrence. Dean had an almost pathological aversion to the place, and even being in Kansas again made him more than a little nervous.
Uncle Ian's car was the total opposite of Dad's creaky old Chevy – brand spanking new and just out of the box, with electric windows and air conditioning and a little plastic cup holder for your coffee.
Dean preferred the Impala.
For some reason, he'd acquiesced to Sam's pleading and let the kid sit up front, while he sat glowering in the back seat, feeling completely cut out of the animated conversation going on between his brother and their Uncle.
So this Ian guy. Seemed kind of alright. For a guy in a suit.
He'd let them bring as much of their stuff as they wanted. Which wasn't saying a lot, but Sammy had got to bring all of his precious books, which made him even happier than he already was. And usually, whatever made Sammy happy made Dean happy.
Dean wasn't exactly happy, but Ian did have one thing in his favour: He hadn't turned into a monster yet. Which was always a good thing.
Dean had sighed when he could no longer see their apartment through the car's big rear window. It may have been a crappy dump, but it almost felt like Dean's last link to his Dad had gone when they rounded that corner and it disappeared from view. For a second, he'd almost panicked – how would Dad know where to find them if they weren't at the apartment? But then he remembered – he knew where Uncle Ian lived.
That made him feel a little happier.
He returned his attention to the front of the car, where Ian was letting Sammy choose which disc to put into his new CD player.
Dean had never seen a CD player in a car before, and grimaced at the music assaulting his eardrums: the crackly stuff Dad played on the Impala's cassette deck was way cooler.
At least the brevity of the journey meant less of the awful music, Dean figured, as Ian declared, "This is it!" before turning into the driveway of one of the biggest houses Dean had seen in his life.
"You live here?" Sammy breathed, awestruck, as he turned his huge eyes upwards to examine the big white house towering over him, perfectly manicured lawn stretching down to the recently-swept sidewalk which ran underneath the two big oak trees on either side of the yellow-stoned path.
Sam's breath caught in his throat as Uncle Ian winked at him before pushing a button mounted on the car's dashboard.
"Get a load of this."
The bright yellow garage door then proceeded to open as if by magic, and Sam couldn't have wiped the amazed grin off his face if he'd tried.
Dean folded his arms across his chest and ground his teeth together, as Sam and Ian shared the wonder of the automatic garage door. Big freakin' deal, he thought to himself. Nowhere near as cool as that eight foot werewolf Dad bagged with his last silver bullet that time.
He continued with random thoughts like these throughout the tour Ian proceeded to give them of the cavernous house – "You mean we get a room each, Uncle Ian? You have satellite TV, Uncle Ian? You have a games room? You have a swimming pool…?"
The swimming pool was the final straw.
Sammy looked like he'd died and gone to heaven.
There was only one brief instant during Uncle Ian's Grand Tour that gave Dean any cause for concern.
Exploring the ground floor, past the huge stainless steel kitchen, the den and the games room – Dean had spied an innocuous-looking white wooden door nestling inconspicuously beneath the back stairs.
"What's in there?" he'd asked, curiosity getting the better of him as he reached out to touch the big brass padlock barring the entrance.
Ian had caught his hand in a flurry of unexpected motion then, pulling him from the door with a jerk so hard and so sudden it hurt his wrist. "You're not allowed down there," he had fairly barked, looking down at the two startled boys with flinty eyes. Then, as if suddenly recognising the look of stunned pain on the eldest's face, he had released his vice-like grip on Dean's fingers, face and eyes softening as he smiled apologetically. "Only two places you're not allowed, boys," he'd said, voice noticeably warmer. "This is one of them."
Sam and Dean had looked up at him expectantly, the latter rubbing at his hand like it was on fire.
Ian's smile never wavered. "That's my workshop, down there in the basement," he'd explained. "I've got all kinds of tools down there that would be more than capable of taking off little fingers without the slightest hesitation. Don't want you boys getting hurt while you're here, do we? What would your Dad say?" He'd laughed then, a forced unnatural sound.
Dean had kept his face purposely neutral. "And the other place?" he'd asked, trying not to sound too interested in Ian's other No Go Zone.
His Uncle had frowned. "The what?" he'd asked.
Dean had shrugged then, his face as innocent as he could possibly make it. "Where's the other place we're not allowed to go?"
Comprehension dawned on Ian's face, and he chuckled softly. "Oh," he'd said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder as if this was really no big deal. "The old shed behind the pool. That's my garage. More tools with serious kid-hurting potential in there."
Dean had nodded obediently, filing the information for another time, the basement and the shed having, quite inexplicably, moved to the top of his Places to Check Out First list.
But for now, here Dean was, feet swinging as he perched himself on the edge of the bed in a bedroom big enough to accommodate most of the motel rooms he and Sammy had grown up in for the past eight years, staring at the off-white walls and the slatted wooden blinds and wondering how the hell to fill the other twenty-eight minutes of the half hour Uncle Ian had allotted him to unpack his stuff.
Dean's 'stuff' consisted of two pairs of jeans, four t-shirts, a couple of changes of underwear and the world's oldest Walkman.
The Walkman had been one of the few birthday presents he ever remembered getting off Dad – he figured the old man probably found it abandoned in some gas station rest room or other. It hadn't actually worked right away, but with a bit of tinkering Dean had coaxed it into life. Although finding batteries continued to be something of an art form. Still, no-one ever bothered to check the TV remote control when you checked out of a motel room, did they?
Dean looked at the clunky cassette player, the Metallica tape he'd 'borrowed' from Dad's stash in the Impala clearly visible through the clear plastic door.
He felt suddenly homesick. Not for Missouri or that crappy apartment. He felt homesick for Dad. For Dad's car.
And for Sammy.
Dean hadn't slept in a separate room to Sam since he was four years old, and although he knew his brother was only next door, where he could hear him chattering away to Uncle Ian and laughing a weird, carefree kind of laugh that Dean didn't remember ever having heard before, he felt as if they may as well have been a thousand miles apart.
He brushed angrily at a tear that had stubbornly refused to stay in his eye and was making its way slowly down his cheek, before jumping down from the bed and mentally ordering himself to pull it together.
He still didn't entirely trust Ian, despite the ice cream, the big house, the swimming pool and the not-having-turned-into-a-monster-yet, and that meant that his primary function in life – watch out for Sammy – was still his top priority.
And here he was, having known this Ian guy for all of half a day, trusting him with his kid brother.
Dad would have had his freakin' head on a stick.
As quietly as he was able, Dean padded over to the big white bedroom door, half expecting it to be locked as he grasped the handle and pulled.
He was almost surprised when it opened without a fight.
Okay, so maybe he was being just a little bit paranoid.
Carefully following the sound of Sammy's – was that a giggle? – giggly voice, Dean tiptoed the six feet down the hallway to what had, for today at least, been designated 'Sam's Room'.
The door was slightly ajar, and although Dean's first instinct was to tumble right into the room uninvited, something about the tone of Ian's voice made him pause, hand hovering uncertainly over the door knob.
"It must have been tough," Ian was saying, his voice low and serious, as if he and Sam had just shared the best joke in the world, but now it was time to get down to business.
Dean peered through the crack in the doorway, where he could see Ian sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, his back to the door, Sam sitting facing him, looking up at him with a question mark in his big inquisitive eyes.
"Growing up," Ian clarified, without Sam even having to put his thoughts into words. "Just you, your Dad and your brother."
Sam shrugged noncommittally. "I guess," he agreed. "Sometimes."
"Don't you get along with your Dad?"
Dean silently cursed that he couldn't see Ian's expression just then, wondering why the hell he had asked Sammy that.
Sam shrugged again, a little too slow in answering the question for Dean's liking. "We get along okay," he said, his voice flat and almost emotionless. Very unlike Sammy. "We fight sometimes," he added. "Mostly when Dean's not around."
"Yeah?" Ian sounded genuinely interested. Maybe a little too interested, and Dean couldn't help recalling the guy using that 'Custody' word earlier. "What d'you fight about?"
Sam's eyes slid down to examine the bedspread a little too intently. "Stuff," he said, an answer only an eight-year-old would think sufficed as an explanation.
"But you don't fight when Dean's around?"
Sam looked back up at his Uncle and shook his head. "Nuh-uh," he said. "Dean doesn't like it when we fight, so I try really hard to be good when he's there."
"And it's when you're being bad that you and your Dad fight?"
Sam frowned then. "I guess…" he faltered. "Sometimes…" he stumbled over the words, and Dean involuntarily clenched his fists as Ian caught hold of the boy's hand.
Get off, get off, get off…
"It's okay, Sam," Ian said. "You can tell me anything. Even if you don't think I'll believe you."
Dean froze, every muscle tense. He felt as if someone had just tipped a bucket of ice water down his back.
Why was he asking Sammy stuff like that? The guy was after something.
The guy was after their secret…
Sam continued to meet his Uncle's gaze evenly, before shrugging again. "Sometimes Dad makes us do stuff he thinks we want to do, but we don't really want to do it. Or at least," he added, examining the bedspread some more. "I don't want to do it."
Dean was really glad Ian wasn't a social worker just then, as he was pretty sure if he had been, he and Sam would have been whisked off to the nearest children's shelter before their feet had time to touch the ground.
"What – " Ian faltered. "What kind of things?"
"Hunting," Sam replied instantly.
Dean saw Ian's shoulders relax visibly, and he let out a strangled laugh of obvious relief. "Well, you're a little young to be hunting, Sam!"
Sam's face lit up. "That what I keep telling him!" he burst out. "And even when I'm Dean's age, I still don't want to!"
There was a pause, before Ian said, "Well, we'll have to see what we can do about that."
What the hell did that mean?
"And what about Dean?" Ian continued suddenly. "How do you get on with him?"
Uh-oh. Well now Dean just felt like a no-good sneak and knew he really ought to turn away and go back to his room.
But he didn't
Sam considered his answer for a few seconds, face screwed up with the effort. "He's my big brother," he replied finally, as if that should be answer enough.
When he didn't continue, Ian prodded, "But you get along?"
There was that shrug again.
"We get along okay."
Okay? Okay?
"But he can be a jerk sometimes."
Dean really wished he'd gone back to his room.
"Treats me like I'm some helpless little kid he has to take care of all the time."
"Hate to break it to you, kiddo," Ian said. "But you are a little kid. And besides, big brothers are supposed to take care of their little brothers or sisters."
Dean was starting to warm to Uncle Ian…
"Did you take care of Mom?"
Long pause.
"I tried."
Even longer pause.
"But that's what I meant earlier…" Typical big brother change of subject manoeuvre. Dean knew it well. "It must be tough without your Mom to do stuff for you."
"What kind of stuff?"
Dean could see the genuine non-comprehension in his brother's eyes: How the hell would he know what Mom's were supposed to do?
That look almost broke Dean's heart.
"Well," Ian continued, apparently oblivious to Sam's confusion. "How about when you have a nightmare? Who gives you a hug and tells you it was just a dream and everything's okay?"
"Dean," Sam replied without thinking.
Damn straight he does…
Another pause.
"He sounds like a pretty good big brother to me."
Another shrug.
"He's okay."
There was that word again. I'll give him 'okay'!
"So," measuring his words carefully. "You have a lot of nightmares, Sam?"
Sam expertly sidestepped the question. "I like it that you call me 'Sam'," he said, smiling up at his Uncle. "Dad and Dean still insist on calling me 'Sammy', like I'm six or something!"
"Sam's a real grown-up name," Ian laughed. "I'll call you Sam if that's what you'd like."
"I'd like."
"Okay. Sam. So. You have a lot of nightmares?"
Dean frowned. This guy was way too interested in Sam's nightmares for his liking…
"Some," Sam replied slowly, not exactly telling the whole truth. A more accurate description would have been 'lots'.
"Yeah," Dean could see Ian nodding. "I used to when I was your age. Really freaky ones sometimes. You know sometimes – okay, don't laugh – but sometimes, I swear it was as if some of them came true."
Dean's hand closed convulsively around the door knob, while Sam continued to gaze evenly at Ian.
"You – you ever have dreams – nightmares – like that, Sam?" Ian continued, voice innocent and apparently devoid of any ulterior motive. "Where it was almost as if it came true?"
Anxious to see the expression on Ian's unreadable face, Dean leaned a little harder on the door than he'd meant, causing it to swing open just a fraction wider.
Sam involuntarily glanced towards him as the sudden movement drew his attention away from his Uncle.
Without even turning round and with a voice as hard as nails, Ian asked, "You need something, Dean?"
Dean froze, unsure what to do now. How the hell had Ian known he was there?
For a second, he just stood there, eyes locked with Sam's, the younger boy's expression one of startled guilt, as if he'd just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Not that they ever had a cookie jar. But Dean was pretty sure that this is what Sam would have looked like if they had.
"N-No," Dean managed to reply weakly, still watching Sammy. "I just thought…"
"Your brother doesn't blink out of existence when you're not around, Dean," Ian informed him, an edge to his voice that hadn't been there when he was buying them ice cream.
"I – I thought he might – might need me…" Dean glanced uncertainly from Ian, who still hadn't turned to face him, back to Sam, whose eyes had never left his big brother's.
"Sam's a big boy now, Dean," Ian continued. "He can manage without you."
Dean swallowed. "No he can't – " he began, but was cut off by Sam's quietly insistent response.
"Yes he can."
Dean took a step backwards, as if physically repelled by Sam's words, a look of complete shock on his face as he searched Sam's eyes for some sign that he hadn't really meant what he'd just said.
But he found none.
Ian still refused to turn and look at Dean as he said calmly, "Don't forget to close the door on your way out."
For a second, Dean just stood there, mouth slightly open, eyes still locked with Sam's.
And then Sammy looked away.
And Dean knew it was over.
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Dean sighed as he counted the last of the pitted white ceiling tiles above his head for the twentieth time.
He'd heard Ian say goodnight to Sam about a half hour ago, and hadn't heard a single sound since the gentle 'click' of Sam's door.
Although Ian had knocked at his door and asked him if he wanted a slice of pizza a couple of hours earlier, Dean had stubbornly refused to reply, rolling onto his stomach to try and stop it growling and pulling a pillow over his head so that he wouldn't hear Sammy – Sam – if he called out for him.
Ungrateful little punk, he found himself thinking, spiralling deeper and deeper into a funk of the highest magnitude. After everything I've done for him.
Of course, trying to convince himself he was boiling mad was a lot easier than trying to deal with the fact that he felt as if someone had gone to work on his heart with a rusty chainsaw.
Ian and Sammy, sitting in a tree… the stupid old rhyme came unbidden into Dean's head. I hope they fall off and break both their necks.
After all he'd done for Sammy, all he'd gone through, all he'd given up… He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it.
Sammy doesn't need you and neither does Dad, the little voice in his head had grown tired of berating his kid brother and had decided to pick on someone his own size. Now what are you going to do? Dad's gone and Sam's going to stay here with Uncle Ian who doesn't want you and you'll be put in a children's home with no-one to look out for you and you'll end up on fire on the ceiling…
Dean sat up, hugging the pillow to his rumbling stomach.
At twelve, he figured he was probably too young to be having one of those 'mid-life crisis' things that Dad sometimes joked about with Pastor Jim.
He'd be okay. He was tough and pretty smart when he wanted to be. He could certainly take care of himself. What did he want with a whiny eight-year-old weighing him down anyway?
He felt light-headed at the thought of shedding that extra baggage.
Light-headed and sick and dizzy and his chest hurt and he couldn't seem to breathe properly and his head ached and…
"DEAN!"
Sammy.
Dean threw aside the pillow and fairly launched himself off the bed, covering the distance between there and the door in the time it took for Sam to scream his name a second time.
Wrenching open the door, Dean skidded along the corridor to Sam's room, where he could hear the little guy crying and moaning pitifully.
Nightmare.
Dean had heard enough of them to recognise the sounds instantly.
"Sammy!" he yelled, grasping the handle to his brother's room and shoving the door hard…
With absolutely no effect whatsoever.
Looking down at the door handle as he tried to figure out why it wasn't co-operating, Dean heard Sammy scream his name one more time before he realised what had happened.
Sam was locked in.
Or was Dean locked out?
Taking a deep breath, Dean gripped the door handle firmly, giving it another wrench and shoving his shoulder as hard as he could against the door, just like he'd seen Dad do a million times.
Although the door wouldn't budge, it shuddered in its frame enough for Dean to realise that this was no lock barring his entry.
Something else was stopping him getting in.
"Sam, I'm coming!" he yelled, kicking viciously at the door with little effect and banging his fists against the panelling in the hope that the wood might somehow miraculously splinter.
No such luck.
As Sammy's petrified screams began to intensify, so did Dean's fierce assault on the door, which seemed to give a little with every other kick, but still refused to give it up.
Hands, shoulders, feet and legs all screaming almost as loud as Sammy, Dean stopped suddenly, just as Sam's screams stopped.
For a second, all Dean could hear was his heavy breathing, the hammering of his heart and the little voice in his head, which was now yelling, It's your fault! It's your fault! It's your fault!
"No!" Sammy's terrified yell ripped through the distance between him and his brother. "Dean!" and then he let out the most spine-chilling scream Dean had ever heard in his life – and he'd heard a few.
And that was when Dean realised this wasn't just a nightmare.
Something was hurting Sammy.
Something was hurting his baby brother and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
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